A Softer Side
by ZoeyBridget
Summary: Inspired by a scene in S4 E8. Mary is curious to know why Charles Blake seemed so happy to be interacting with little George. Feeling the need to know more about his "softer side," she finds out quite a bit more than she expected. One-shot by a first-time author, emboldened by the example of so many wonderful writers here! Julian Fellowes owns these characters.


After dinner on Charles Blake's last night at Downton, he and Mary strolled aimlessly down the drive in comfortable silence, enjoying the warm evening. They were nearly to the first grove of trees when Mary remarked casually, "You're really fond of my George, aren't you?"

Charles's face broke into a wide grin. "Yes, I am. Who wouldn't be? He's a wonderful little chap."

_Little chap._ _Matthew's words._ Mary was relieved to find that the memory was less painful than it might have been a few months earlier, and she said lightly, "He's quite a handful, you know. Feisty and independent already, and as you no doubt saw, he makes his feelings known."

"That he does, in spades! Takes after his mother, I daresay," joked Charles with a sly sidelong smile.

Mary chuckled fondly. "Actually, I think he's a pretty equal blend of Matthew and me, with a little of Papa thrown in." She studied Charles speculatively, and observed, "You certainly seem to like spending time with him, even when he gets screamy and cross and sends everyone else scurrying in the opposite direction."

"I do like being with him," admitted Charles. "You can already tell he's very smart, and…well, he's quite irresistible, really. Very good company."

"Thank you, Charles. I think so, of course, but as his mother I am hardly objective."

"Naturally not."

So…" Mary ventured, seemingly engrossed in the sunset, "I take it you would enjoy being a father…someday?" Not until the question fell from her lips did she realize how much depended upon Charles's answer. She couldn't look at him, and worried when after several moments she got no response. _Oh, no_, she thought. _Perhaps I've offended him? _ She stole a nervous glance at his face and was surprised to see his throat working. There were tears in his eyes and he appeared to be grappling with something. "Charles?" she asked, alarmed. "What is it?"

He shook his head rapidly, trying to smile as he groped for his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. "I'm sorry, Mary. I—it's nothing—"

"Obviously, it _isn't_ nothing!" cried Mary, concerned. Something was very wrong. _What had she said? _ As he mopped his eyes, he cleared his throat, and she noticed that his lips were trembling. Knowing there was a bench up ahead, she propelled him to it and sat, pulling him down to face her. "Tell me." Charles was trying to turn away from her, fighting for control. Attempting to inject some levity into the situation, she said gently, "Come on, now - I won't bite."

Charles' tears were falling freely now - his efforts to stem them were futile - but he choked out a laugh. "Knowing you, Mary, I'm not so sure!"

"I won't, I promise." Mary assured him. Unless-" she continued, smiling, "—you absolutely refuse to tell me, and then all bets are off." Anxious to cheer him now, she mischievously grabbed his wrist and made as if to sink her teeth into it.

Charles couldn't help smiling back. He snatched his arm away, and then let her pull it back. "All right. I'll tell you." He refolded the wet handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he began, "A little over three years ago, I lost my wife." Mary gasped in sympathy. "Meg and I were childhood sweethearts, and we got married right after the war – she wanted to do it sooner, but I insisted on waiting. If I were badly injured or maimed, I didn't want her tied down to that." Mary nodded, understanding all too well. "We wanted to be parents so badly, and luckily for us, she became pregnant straight away. Our families were overjoyed and so were we, my Nutmeg and I," he said. In response to Mary's dubious raised eyebrow, he qualified, "Yes, that was my pet name for her. Nutmeg."

"Charming. And what did she call _you_?"

"Oh, no," Charles said firmly. "I'd have to know you a great deal better to reveal _that_."

Mary smiled, taking his hand kindly and clasping it between both of her own. "Well, when you do tell me – and you will! - I'll know for sure that I'm someone special."

"You're _already_ someone special," Charles assured her warmly. "I don't consort with pigs and sling mud with just _anyone_, you know." They laughed softly together. "Still…everyone is entitled to _some_ secrets."

"Very well," Mary allowed. "I'll grant you that…for now. Do go on."

"When Meg was about seven and a half months pregnant, along came the Spanish flu, and it was everywhere, it seemed." Charles continued. "We were terrified, of course, and took every precaution we possibly could. I suppose the flu made it here?"

"Oh, yes. We almost lost Mama, and Matthew's first fiancé Lavinia died of it."

"_First_ _fiancé_?" asked Charles, surprised. "Hmmm…I suspect there's a story there."

"There is, of course. At the time I was engaged to _my_ first fiancé. Whom Matthew later dispatched with a neat right hook to the jaw."

"Good lord," said Charles, a bit flummoxed.

"That's a story for another time. You were saying?" Mary prompted him.

With a heavy sigh, Charles continued, "One rainy night that spring, we were sitting by the fire after dinner when Meg suddenly became very hot and dizzy and disoriented." Mary nodded. "I helped her upstairs to bed, called the doctor, and did my best to take care of her and bring her fever down. But by the time he got there – he was very busy, of course, with all the other cases in town - she was in terrible shape."

"Yes," remembered Mary, grimly. "That disease moved like wildfire."

"It did. At any rate, the doctor did everything he could to save Meg, but she went very fast. So fast, in fact, that we barely had time to say goodbye. Her last words, really, were to the doctor, begging him to take our baby. Telling him that she was far enough along that it might survive, and she wanted it…for me." Tears were pooling in Charles's eyes again, and he barely made it to the end of that sentence. Close to weeping herself, Mary squeezed his hand more tightly.

"Was—was the doctor able to-?"

"Our baby was born, yes – a beautiful boy," Charles said with considerable effort. "But as it turned out, he had the flu as well, and there was nothing anyone could do to save him. He—he—died in my arms." Overcome, he began to shake and bowed his head, beginning to sob in earnest. "Dear God, he was so tiny—"

"Oh, Charles," breathed Mary, desperately sad for him. Instinctively, she let go of his hand and drew him tenderly into her arms, bringing his head down to rest on her shoulder and stroking his hair as he wept against her. His arms slipped around her waist, and he hung on to her for dear life.

"I'm so sorry," he choked out after several minutes, trying in vain to compose himself. "I know this is very...improper. Or at least, embarrassing."

"Shhhh…never mind. It's perfectly all right," said Mary soothingly. After a time, she added softly, "I'm so sorry that happened to you. Now I understand why you seem to have such an affinity for my little George."

"Of course," conceded Charles. "And what I've just told you probably does have something to do with it." He reached for his handkerchief again. "But also, I think…" he paused, weighing it, "…he's extra special to me because he's _yours_."

"Charles—"

_Best to just get it out there,_ he thought. "Mary, I've fallen in love with you. Surely you must know that."

Mary sighed. "Yes, I suppose I do." She had suspected for several days, although she wasn't sure if she was terribly comfortable hearing Charles confirm it while his arms were wrapped around her and her cheek was pressed to the top of his head. But oddly, she felt no inclination to let go; somehow it felt right. Charles, however, now seemed to need some distance – reluctantly, he lifted his damp cheek from her shoulder and extricated himself from her embrace. They sat side by side in awkward silence for a moment as Charles waited stoically for her to say something more. Finally, he turned to face her.

"Perhaps…you've decided on Gillingham, then?" he asked hesitantly.

"No, I haven't," replied Mary. "He's been quite persistent, but I've put him off several times. He keeps dropping hints, though."

"Hmmm…" Charles wasn't sure what to say.

Suddenly, Mary was struck with an idea. "You know," she confided, "the first time Tony proposed, he kissed me."

Charles was careful to keep his face and voice neutral. "Did he? When was this?"

"A few months ago. I had just turned him down; it was too soon, really—"

"A six-months widow? I should think so!" retorted Charles, rather appalled.

"—and then he asked if he could. Kiss me, I mean. He looked so sad, like a puppy who'd lost his mother."

Charles snorted. "You realize that's not exactly a _romantic_ analogy."

Mary smiled. "No. Anyway, I didn't have the heart to say no. And I suppose...I thought it would help me decide if I was right to refuse him."

"And how was—well, _did_ it help you?"

"Not really," sighed Mary, deflated. "I couldn't decide if I wanted _him_ or just missed being kissed by somebody. So I was in even more of a muddle than before, if that's possible."

"Not a very good sign," Charles asserted.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean…well…a person's kisses – at least if they mean them in a romantic sense - can tell you quite a lot, I think."

Privately, Mary thought so, too, sparing a warm thought for Matthew. Then she grinned slyly. "Goodness me, Charles! Do you mean to tell me that above and beyond your impressive knowledge of all things porcine, you're an expert at _this_ as well?"

Charles began to laugh sardonically in spite of himself. "At kissing? Oh, quite!"

Pleased to have successfully distracted him, Mary said archly, "My, my. If memory serves, you did ask me to give you a chance…so I think now you must give me some basis for comparison."

"Must I?" he asked facetiously, enjoying himself now.

"Oh, I think so," returned Mary in kind. "It would only be fair, don't you think? And I must admit I find myself quite curious to learn what an 'expert kiss' is like." Her heart started to beat faster as Charles seemed to acquiesce and moved closer to her on the bench. _Here we go, _she thought, nervousness mingling with excitement.

"Might I remind you," Charles said, "that _I_ never claimed to be an expert; it was _YOU_ who conferred that distinction upon me. I must say, it's quite a lot to live up to." He raised his arm and advanced it along the back of the bench to slide around her shoulders. He began to draw her closer.

"Feeling some pressure now, are you?" Mary's breath caught, and her dark eyes locked with his as his face rapidly filled her entire field of vision.

Charles smiled. His gaze slowly dropped to her lips. "Not yet," he murmured. "But I think _you're_ about to."


End file.
